Lie Through A Smile
by Sardonyx Feather
Summary: Five times Loki's smile wasn't real (and the one time it might be.)


_minor spoilers for Thor, the Avengers, and spoiler for Thor: The Dark World_

* * *

**I.**

He barely notices the cold.

The barren landscape is cracked at the edges, and the darkness looms over it like a blanket, hiding the endless chasms and icy waters hidden beneath the surface. It is fitting, the home of monsters desolate, like his own heart (_he is one of them, after all._) He hates it, hates the chilled winds that attack him like vicious ravens, hates his own skin (_it now feels like an ill fitting piece of clothing_). He always chased after information and control, but he does not know if he would rather have known this or lived the rest of his life as the dark, shadowed prince, long forgotten (_maybe not so much, he did get mocked, after all_). Thor would still be the golden prince, now on the throne of Asgard, and probably doing something disastrous, because without him, Thor would not have been banished.

Whoever said knowledge came with a price was more right than they thought.

The worst thing is that when he looks (_up_) into Laufey's (_he refuses to call him _father_, because he does not know if he even has one_) face, he sees his own face set in deep blue stone and scarlet eyes. He is the spawn of a monster, and such he is one too- maybe Asgard was right, at least this time, in shunning him, because they saw something wrong with him. That would be the one intelligent action the stupid buffoons did right. They have gave him nothing, and such he has nothing to lose.

However, words never fail him; this time is no different. It is a shield, impenetrable, that only he knows how to wield. The days before he learned were slow and painful, but he has long learned his lesson. He hides behind it while simultaneously lashing out, because he knows where it hurts the most, since he has been hurt there himself, (_but you must not show weakness_) and (_they pounce on it_) he knows (_like vultures!_) and he learns.

He does not let his apprehension show (_it is _not _fear, __his mind insists_) but he knows there is no turning back.

He slips on the mask and hears it clicking into place, with the mechanic whirring of gears as it slots perfectly into his place.

He smiles, and it is one filled with malice.

* * *

**II.**

He does not know where he is.

When the light blue fog fills his mind, clouding his bright, clear, vision, he is sent hurtling through the starry visions of space and the Void, blasted off from the utterly barren moon the Chitauri call their home, freezing like the wastes of Jotunheim and blazing like the fury of Muspelheim.

He barely has time to remember to fulfill his role, letting himself dance along the strings, and because this _was _his idea, and he does not know what to think of otherwise.

The blue fog does not clear, but he goes ahead and begins his first line of the script, because he was an actor and this was his role.

The best liars can lie even to themselves.

* * *

**III**

He has lost, but he is not defeated.

His vision is like a magnifying glass now- one that shows the shadows hiding in the forgotten corners, the lonely spiderwebs that hide from the bright morning dew, one that dulls the light and turns it into unforgiving monsters (ha, the world's greatest joke), and he would rather be blind.

He does not even has his words to protect him now (_silver tongue turned to lead?_) and he feels oddly naked without it, but lies are not made up entirely of words, and it is enough to protect him. He yanks on the mask again, and turns away from the truth. (_the part in him that still has a sense of humor remarks dryly that he only has the upper half of his face anyway, and it is quite right_)

His brother must have warned the mortals of his "wheedling, mind bewitching ways" (_as Sif __put it nicely_) then, or they decided to pick up a book on Norse Mythology. Despite the many untruths, they were sometimes more accurate than he would have liked. A small pity the humans in this era were not half as observant as their predecessors, though they did advance quite a lot in a small span of time.

The dark gray gag/muzzle (_he had almost laughed at the irony of it_) was irritating, and it brought up painful memories. He chose not to dwell on it, but barely managed to suppress a wince when the (_thing_) was put on him. It was tight, and dug into his cheekbones, and rather chilled, but (_the cold never bothered him anyway_).

This was a free ticket to Asgard (_vengeance)_, and he was not about to let it slip past his fingers.

* * *

**IV.**

He wonders if he really knows himself after all.

When the guard comes to gloat, he is not prepared for the emotions that suddenly rise up within him, swelling like the day tide and growing stronger, crazier, as the wave beats against the shore rentlessly. He hides it until the guard leaves (coward) because he is good at hiding, lying is what he does (liar, liar) but everything that happens after that is a blur, because Frigga is _dead, _but oh, he does not mourn, he rages, rages like the hungry fire that licks at the edges of the consumed forest.

The grief inside him emerges again, but he squashes it with the fervor of a madman, covering it in swathes of anger and hatefulness, because he is not out of his role yet, no, he will adhere to the script, and it is singing along in his head. It will not let him go, and it chants mockingly as he tries to chase after it, tries to stop it, but it goes too fast, too fast, and he knows he will not reach it. and it will remain there until the end of time (we have too long to live) unless he forgets, but he will not, ever.

His magic is restricted, but he has enough spark yet, so he lets it all out, in the destructive power and the might that it is, and it keeps his mind blank, for the moment. He has always liked his mind sharp and clear, but this time, he wishes he could simply sleep and fall away, fall like he did into the Void, but this time, he would not wake up. Waking up brings on the toil of a new day, and others find comfort and happiness in the beginning of a sunrise, but all he can see is despair and fury. He rejoices at the sunset, because it is night, and night is the land of the shadows, where he belongs, because he poisons the light.

Soon, there is nothing left to destroy, and the chanting in his head starts up again (_monster monster where were you when she __**died**__ who put me here it's all your fault you should have been there __**monster**_) so instead he screams until his voice dies and his throat burns, but that is okay, because (_you deserve the pain_) he sees the crimson tinge of blood, so he focuses on the pain instead, radiating from every part of his body (_are you heartless?_) and he does not know what is going on anymore.

When Thor comes (_brother?_) he scrabbles wildly for the mask, fumbling around in the dark for it before it tickles his fingers and he pulls it on, but Thor is not fooled, and he sees through it (_this one time_) but he always has a backup, his lies need no magic. He cannot help the small twinge of hurt that comes from somewhere he did not know existed, but again, he quashes it down and covers it up again, leaving no blemish behind.

He smiles, and it is so fake he wonders if Thor can see through it too.

* * *

**V.**

He knows where to hit in all the right spots.

He wants Thor to get mad at him (_where's the one that would punch his way out of everything_) why did Midgard change him so? He knows Thor is not the person he once knew, but and he is no longer the person Thor once knew (_or is he?_) because he thought Thor would be able to see, but maybe not, even if he no longer sees past his own desires, that bubble does not extend to his former brother anyway. He hopes that he still knows how to goad Thor into a fight, because they are no longer the same people.

His efforts do not fail, and it soon escalates into a fighting match- but it dies out, like the hopeless embers of a starting fire, suffocated by the ash and wood. He hates it, hates everything, because he is angry and grieving, (_was he that good at hiding_) and he wants to _fight _(_let me fight you_)

(_Brother, this is madness!)_

(_is it?_)

He does not smile this time. Instead he laughs, but it is not one of mirth or happiness. It is flat, like an unsharpened blade, but razor sharp at the same time, and he hopes it hurts Thor as much as it hurts him, because he cannot bottle it up all inside.

(_he knows what he must do, they will not grieve_)

Thor smiles back.

* * *

**I.**

He has to keep up with appearances, after all.

Odin's stunning visage was restrictive, but he hoped he knew enough (_his once father_) that it would not be seen through. He wondered if he ever knew him, though.

There is a part in him, that smiles briefly after he speaks with Thor, and it is very much real, no matter how small.


End file.
